


The Influence of Kindred Desires

by Tanaqui



Series: Raven and Gold (Lord of the Rings) [3]
Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: F/M, First Time, Wedding Night, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-01
Updated: 2005-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 12:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanaqui/pseuds/Tanaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Steward of Gondor and the White Lady of Rohan are to be married. The right ceremonies must be performed in the right way. But Faramir and Éowyn have a few rituals of their own to conduct.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Faramir sat patiently as Elphir lifted off his coronet and handed it to Elfhelm to stow in its travelling box. Next he was relieved of the heavy gold torc that circled his neck. It was an heirloom of the House of Eorl, lent to him by Éomer, and of a very different design to the light chain of the Steward’s collar of state that he normally wore on formal occasions. The rope-twist band of this collar lay heavily against the nape of his neck, while the horses’ heads at the terminals rested in the hollow of his throat.

Faramir had felt keenly the honour of wearing it as he wedded into the kin of Eorl and Helm and Théoden, Thengel’s son. He had also felt the weight of it during the day. It was far more burdensome than his usual attire, and despite the honour, he was not entirely sorry to be rid of it.

The horses’ heads, studded with green gems, glinted in the candlelight as Erkenbrand carried it away to safe storage. As the Marshal of the Westfold departed on his errand, Erchirion knelt before the stool on which Faramir was sitting and began working on removing his boots, while Imrahil waited ready with the fur-trimmed robe he would wear that night. Only briefly, Faramir hoped, smiling to himself.

Behind him, from the far side of the room, came the laughter of women; Lothíriel’s giggle and the Queen’s merry peal could be heard amongst the voices. He could not pick out Éowyn’s tones: was she as silent as he was? As nervous?

He found himself rubbing his thumb against the gold wedding ring that sat on his index finger, first placed there nearly two weeks ago. Only now was it beginning to feel a part of him.

The great hall of the Tower of Ecthelion in Minas Tirith had been crowded when Faramir had made his way out from the side chamber. Nobles and commoners alike were crushed together, leaving only a small space before the throne. He saw a group of Ithilien Rangers pressed along one wall: he gathered they had drawn lots, since there was insufficient room for all to attend. The rest of them would be somewhere outside, ready to partake of the lavish feast that would follow the ceremony. He was sorry that the Rangers would not be providing the honour guard when he showed his new bride to the people, but that was now the place of the White Company.

His bride! If only it had been Éowyn approaching him from the other side of the hall. The need to satisfy the customs of both Gondor and Rohan had produced a fine tangle of ceremonies; and in Éowyn’s place, here in Gondor in the spring, he faced a matronly lady whose plump, pale prettiness was faded by years of care and service: Hild, wife to Erkenbrand.

It had been four months before, just before the turn of the year at _mettarë_ , when the king had come quietly into his office and found him hunched over the latest dispatches from Rohan. He had started when Aragorn touched his shoulder and called his name.

”My apologies, sire,” Faramir had said, making a move to rise. Aragorn’s hand on his shoulder had pressed him back into his chair.

“Sit,” he admonished. He nodded to the letters on the table. “I trust the news from Rohan is not bad?”

“No, all is well. It is simply that there are still some outstanding matters regarding the wedding ceremonies.”

“Let me see.” Aragorn sat down in a chair on the other side of the desk, stretching out his legs, and held out his hand.

“I would not trouble you with it, sire.”

“I am more troubled that my Steward is troubled – and tying himself in knots over a simple ceremony,” Aragorn said. He softened the remark with a smile. “Come, Faramir. If we can outmanoeuvre the Haradric ambassador between us, I am sure we can see off the combined might of the Masters of Ceremonies of Rohan and Gondor.”

Faramir reluctantly pushed the papers across the table and reflected, once again, that the immensely complicated negotiations over the place and timing and form of the wedding ceremonies were in stark contrast with the simplicity of the pledge and betrothal. “I confess, I have been sorely tempted at times simply to ride to Edoras with a spare horse and some trail rations and invite Éowyn to come with me into the wild,” he admitted with a wry grin.

Aragorn laughed. “I dare say she would agree. But,” he fixed Faramir with a stern look that yet contained a glint of humour, “both Gondor and Rohan must see the deed done and done aright.” He scanned through the sheaf of papers and eventually commented, “I am glad to see you have managed to agree on the order of the ceremonies. At last.”

“Aye,” Faramir nodded. “It is clear we must wed in Rohan, since the White Lady is the last of the House of Eorl after her brother. Until he weds and has sons, her children might be heirs to the Riddermark.”

“And while I would not wish you to be the first and last of the House of Húrin to be Prince of Ithilien, the succession here matters less,” Aragorn nodded.

“Yes, I am sure you could find another Prince of Ithilien quite easily,” Faramir said. He was looking down at the pen he held, turning it over and over in his hands, and did not notice the sharp look Aragorn gave him. “Besides, it seems there are certain aspects of the ceremony in Rohan that must be completed there, but,” he sighed, “they cannot be undertaken before the ceremonies for Gondor are concluded. Yet, for her honour, my bride may not travel to Gondor unwed by the customs of Rohan.”

“A pretty pickle – and a pretty point of protocol,” Aragorn laughed. “If she had not already travelled here unwed – and been under your protection for many weeks - there would be no wedding.”

“’Tis true.” Faramir’s answering laugh smoothed away some of the frown lines from his face. He wondered if he would always be so grateful for his betrothed’s unconventional spirit. “So Hild of Westfold will stand proxy here in the White City, that the people of Gondor may see us wed. Then Éowyn and I will confirm the ceremony when I reach Edoras, before we wed after the manner of Rohan.”

“I shall be sorry not to see that,” Aragorn said. “I remember well that a wedding amongst the Eorlingas is a merry occasion.”

“And I shall be sorry that you will not be there with the queen, sire. But as the Prince of Ithilien has to attend his own wedding, and he requires the presence of the Prince of Dol Amroth as his nearest kin, your Steward has rightly advised you that you must leave someone competent behind in charge of the kingdom.”

Faramir’s tone was so dry that it was a moment before Aragorn realised he was making a joke.

“I am glad my Steward feels able to entrust me with the task,” he said, with a laugh. He waved at the papers again. “Have you decided on the wedding gifts?”

“Éomer has offered us livestock,” Faramir said. “Broodmares in foal, and sheep, and a fine breeding bull.”

Aragorn’s face split into a grin. “Ah, I had suspected the bloodstock of Ithilien might rival that of Dol Amroth, but now I know it will surpass it. What do you offer Rohan in return?”

“Logging rights in Ithilien for five years,” Faramir answered. “They have much rebuilding to do and little timber of their own – and there are many trees of a good age for felling which need clearing from old farmland if it is to be put under the plough again.” He looked quickly at Aragorn. “That is, if you have no objection, sire.”

“Ithilien is yours to do with as you wish, Faramir,” the king answered lightly. “It seems a good plan to me.”

“There is also another gift I wish to make,” Faramir said, going a little red. “My bride and her brother can read and write a little, but few of the people of Rohan know their letters. I wish to offer them my father’s books, help them build a library, and give them teachers to show them how to use it.” He paused. “Is it a foolish idea, do you think? I worry that Éomer will not find it welcome. Or perhaps think that I mock him and his people.”

“I think it may not be to his personal taste, but I am sure he will see the wisdom of it,” Aragorn answered. He paused before he asked casually, “You do not wish to keep your father’s books yourself? I believe it is a fine collection.”

Faramir looked down at the desk, his face going a deeper red. “It is, but I would rather it were not in _my_ house.”

“Of course,” Aragorn said quickly. “And what of your morning gift to your bride.”

Faramir looked up, smiling again. “I will give her my mother’s dower lands in Dol Amroth. I am sure Éowyn will learn to love the sea. And there is no dispute that they are mine to give.”

Aragorn gave him another sharp look. This time Faramir saw the rebuke and stiffened himself to face the reprimand. His reaction only served to provoke an audible hiss of frustration from the king. “Faramir, there is no dispute that there are many things which are yours to give,” he said. “I know the properties of the Stewards and your own family and the Royal estates have become somewhat muddled over the last thousand years, but I wish you would accept a little more of what I have offered.”

“You have given me Ithilien.”

“And you are pouring every bit of income you get out of it – and more – back in to the reconstruction. Faramir, I commend your devotion to your Princedom and I know you do not care much for luxury beyond simple comforts. Nor do I think your bride is one who will be dissatisfied with such a life. I confess I find the refinements of the court a little wearisome myself at times. But you are the Steward of Gondor. I cannot reproach your performance of your public duties, but I ask you to remember that for you and I, the private is the public. Your personal life is not above notice from the people. While they do not want stewards and kings who are greedy, they do not expect their lords to live like… like an officer of the Ithilien Rangers! At the very least, please allow your sense of duty as to appearances to permit you to accept what is your due.”

Faramir laughed and saw Aragorn looked pleased at the sound. “Very well, sire, I will accept some luxury – for duty’s sake!”

“For duty’s sake!” Aragorn echoed. He glanced back down at the documents. “Ah, I see you also require a sword to give to your bride.” He tapped the papers with one finger. “If I remember correctly, it needs to be an ancestral blade with an honourable history. Have you such?” He gave Faramir another piercing look.

Faramir sighed and said, “Not yet. Another problem I face. Since any sword I might have offered has been rendered useless by fire.” Every mention of the word sword in the dispatches had brought with it the double pain of his likely failure to fulfil this requirement and the memory of the reason for that failure.

“And when were you going to come and ask me for assistance in this matter?” Aragorn asked, his tone half amused and half exasperated.

Faramir looked over at him and again reddened. “Probably in the hour before I departed for Rohan,” he conceded.

“I have a sword for you,” Aragorn said quietly. “It has a long and proud history.” A pained look crossed his face. “I am sure the one who bore it last would not begrudge that it should serve your sons.”

Four months later, as he stood facing Hild of Westfold in the great hall under the benign smiles of the king and queen, Faramir had reflected that it had not been an easy conversation with his king. It seemed he did not always provide Elessar with what he wanted. Yet the king was rarely angry with him, but offered understanding, guiding him in a role he had never thought would be his.

 _Like a father._

He had forced away the sadness that welled up in him at that thought and concentrated on the ceremony. With Hild, he had spoken the words that he would later confirm in Edoras with Éowyn, and they had exchanged rings. This ceremony achieved little more than their trothplighting the year before in advancing the marriage, yet it seemed to satisfy the crowd, who whooped and hollered and clapped, and then took themselves off to enjoy the feast.

Looking back, many aspects of the ceremony in Gondor had been quite unreal to Faramir, not least how strange it felt to be in the presence of the king and queen wearing something other than the sable and silver of his office. Even when the royal couple occasionally travelled to Ithilien to see how the resettlement progressed, they mostly found him bearing an image of the White Tree, clad as he often was in his old Ranger garb: a practical choice whether he was riding out to remote farmsteads or overseeing building works. Several times during the ceremony he had glanced down briefly at the crest embroidered on his tunic, a crest that the king had insisted he bear on this day of all days: _You are my faithful King’s Servant and no one needs to be reminded of that. You wed as Prince of Ithilien and head of the House of Húrin – and Gondor must know it._

So it was that he bore a quartered crest. One part was bright argent like snow in the sun, bearing no charge nor device, the banner of the Stewards. Another showed a bird – a swallow - against a blue ground and that was for the House of Húrin, who hailed from the hills of Emyn Arnen in years long past. Faramir had known the symbol all his life, but he could not recall it ever being used by his father.

The third quarter bore a white tree on a green field: in memory of Isildur, who first held the Moon-Land and braved death to save the fruit of Nimloth, and as a reminder of the glades of Ithilien that Faramir loved. It was comforting to still bear an image of a tree. The last quarter showed the swan-prowed ship of Dol Amroth: his mother’s line. The sons of this marriage would bear the White Horse of Rohan in its place.

He was half brought back to the present as Elphir touched his shoulder and asked him to stand, so that he could lift that same tunic over Faramir’s head. Here he was, in Rohan, two weeks later, and now twice married.

“I hope you are not going to carry on frowning like that, cousin!”

“What?” Erchirion’s remark jerked Faramir fully out of his daydream. His cousins were now working on the lacings of his doublet.

“If you wear that face with your bride, she will be storming out of here within the hour, demanding the wedding be annulled,” Erchirion pointed out.

Faramir actually laughed. “I do not think so!”

“Oh, now he shows his confidence!” Elphir gave Faramir a friendly thump in the shoulder. “You did not speak so when we were in Gondor.”

“So that is what you debated in your secret council,” Erchirion said with a grin

“Which will remain secret,” Faramir warned Elphir. He realised his eldest cousin was rather more drunk than he had previously suspected. He wondered whether there would ever be a time when he could again guarantee that his private acts would remain private.

“Of course, my lord,” Elphir said with mock deference. Faramir did not doubt his brothers would have the whole tale out of him before the end of the night, but he suspected he would be past caring about being teased by then. Yet at this moment he did not want it spoken of.

His effort to secure an opening to talk alone with Elphir had somewhat spoilt his enjoyment of the feast after the proxy wedding in Minas Tirith. The party from Dol Amroth had only arrived late the previous night and Faramir felt there would be little opportunity for quiet counsel on the road once they set off for Rohan the next day. Even if he managed to draw Elphir aside and avoid being overheard, their conference would be noted and remarked upon. Faramir knew he must take his chance during the current celebrations.

The information he sought from Elphir was not strictly necessary, but there was a matter that had been preying on Faramir’s mind that he could not satisfy by recourse to books. After his conversation with the king before _mettarë_ , he had come to understand that he should turn to his friends and family more often when he was troubled. Still, this was not an easy thing to ask. It was certainly not something he felt he could discuss with the king.

It should have been his brother’s place to answer, although Faramir was not entirely convinced Boromir would have been the best person with whom to broach the matter. Since that was, alas, an option no longer open to him, he had eventually decided that he could best trust Elphir with the task of enlightenment.

Yet it was early evening and the merrymaking was in full swing before he was able to approach his cousin. Elphir was giving a good night kiss to his small son before his wife carried the boy off to bed. When mother and child had left, Faramir touched Elphir’s arm. “Cousin, may I speak to you in private?”

Elphir raised his eyebrows in surprise but merely said “As you wish.” He allowed Faramir to lead him into the Steward’s private office, to one side of the main hall. Once there, Elphir looked around as if dissatisfied with the place. “We’re missing all the fun,” he grumbled. “And my goblet is empty.” He waved it at Faramir accusingly. “That can be amended.” Faramir took the cup and filled it with some wine from a decanter that stood on a side table. After he handed the glass to his cousin, he took a deep breath and said, “You were married latest of any man I dare ask such a thing. I would like your advice about my wedding night.”

Elphir spluttered a mouthful of wine back into the goblet. “Your wedding night?”

“Yes. I am unsure what I should do.”

Elphir seemed somewhat nonplussed. Then he laughed. “Cousin, did you learn nothing in your visits to the women of the House of Starlight? Clearly you are not such a quick study in practical matters as with your books!”

Faramir glared at him and said crossly, “Aye, I learnt plenty. I learnt how to lie with a woman who has been with many men. I did not learn how I should be with a woman who has known none before.”

Elphir sobered at his words. “There is that, cousin,” he said quietly. “I am sorry for my jest. But it is not so different, you know. Except that she may be somewhat more… surprised by you.”

Faramir felt distinctly hot as he remembered a summer’s night some months previous when Éowyn had surprised _him_. He hoped Elphir would not notice the flush that must have spread over his face. He said quickly, “I do not think that will be the case. My bride is a shieldmaiden and was raised amongst warriors and breeders of horses. I do not think she will be surprised by… appearances or what must be done.”

“That is true,” Elphir nodded. “Yet she has not done these things herself. I do not think you should expect her to be as adventurous or willing as the women of the House of Starlight in all things. Be careful what you ask of her… or offer her.”

Faramir bit his bottom lip nervously. “I will remember. Also,” he stumbled slightly over his words, despite the many times he had rehearsed this conversation in his head, “I have heard that for a woman the first time is not pleasurable. That it may be painful, even. I would know what I should do that I might make it less so.”

“Ah,” Elphir looked thoughtful. “I understand. I believe all you may do is make sure she is as ready for you as she may be. And that you are careful and slow….”

He paused, as there was an imperious rapping on the door. Then it burst open. “Ah, here he is!” Erchirion cried, half falling into the room.

“Hiding as usual!” Amrothos added. “This is one feast where you are simply not allowed to sneak away, Faramir.”

As Faramir’s two younger cousins claimed an arm each to lead him back to the hall, Elphir added in an undertone tinged with laughter, “And make sure the door is barred, so that you be not disturbed!”

Faramir had to admit he had enjoyed the celebrations more once that worry was lifted from his mind, and when he had felt free, late in the evening, to join the Rangers and receive their many toasts for his future health and happiness. He had lent his voice to their songs and, for a few hours, had slipped back to a time when he was not yet Prince and Steward, or even Captain, but simply one of this happy band.

The wedding feast in Rohan had brought a different kind of joy, with Éowyn at his side. Last time they had feasted, they had been placed far apart, but now they shared a single plate, piled high with the choicest food. The drink flowed freely and musicians brought out their harps and pipes and drums, and there was singing and dancing and much laughter. Looking around the hall, Faramir’s heart had been filled with quiet pleasure to see such cheer and he hoped they might carry even a tithe of this delight to their new home in Emyn Arnen.

When the feast was near its end, Éowyn brought a feasting cup to Faramir, that they might drink together, while the company toasted their heath. After they were done, Faramir rose and spoke.

“My lords and ladies of Rohan and Gondor. My bride and I,” here he could not resist pausing to look down at Éowyn. Her happy smile lit her face more brightly than all the flames in the hall. Faramir returned the smile and took her hand and raised her to stand with him. “My bride and I are honoured that you have come to celebrate our wedding with us. Today – and all the days since I first met the White Lady of Rohan – I count myself amongst the most fortunate of Men. We have come through sorrow to joy and know that, by our pledges, the oaths between our peoples are strengthened with yet another tie.

“And ere you depart, King Elessar and my uncle, the Prince of Dol Amroth, have given me leave to speak of another tie that will bind our two peoples ever closer. It is my great pleasure to announce that my new brother, King Éomer, has asked for the hand of my cousin Lothíriel, Lady of Dol Amroth , daughter of Prince Imrahil, and it has been granted. I beg you, therefore, to stand witness to their trothplighting and to join me in a toast to their happiness.”

And after Éomer and Lothíriel had been handfasted and more toasts had been drunk, it was time for the attendants to lead Faramir and Éowyn to the bedchamber.


	2. Chapter Two

Éomer and Amrothos had stayed in the feasting hall to preside over the remaining revels. Faramir was not sorry to leave his new brother behind. During the course of the evening Éomer appeared to be making a belated bid to preserve his sister’s virtue for one more night, repeatedly attempting to refill Faramir’s mug with strong mead and, more than once, expressing his dissatisfaction at the pace at which the Prince was drinking. When Éowyn had realised what was happening, she had skilfully connived, without being asked, to spirit away full mugs and replace them with empty ones, allowing Faramir to keep a clear head yet impress the King.

As his cousins finished with his doublet and began on his undershirt, and Faramir continued to cast his mind back over the feast, a sudden thought struck him. “The _perian’s_ gift!” he exclaimed. “Has it been brought in? It must be brought.” He made to turn and see, but Elphir prevented him.

“Cousin, you must not look ere you and your bride are ready!” he chided. “Nay, it has not been brought, but it can be fetched. My Lord Elfhelm, would you be so kind?”

Elfhelm nodded and left to fetch the needed item.

Faramir had been deeply touched when the presents from the hobbits were brought out during the wedding feast. He knew from his conversations with Pippin that halflings gave gifts freely and often – a fine custom, he had thought at the time – yet he also knew of the difficulties the _periannath_ had encountered in their own land and the need to heal the many hurts of the Shire. He was humbled at their generosity in thinking of Éowyn and himself at such a time.

Merry’s gift had been a horn: large for a hobbit yet small in Faramir’s hands as he turned it over and admired the fine copper banding engraved with fruit and flowers. He passed it to Éowyn to look at while he read out the note that came with it.

 _From Meriadoc, son of Saradoc, Knight of the Mark, to Éowyn, Lady of Rohan, and Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor, greetings._

 _My lady, I will always cherish the memory of the music of the horns of Rohan in the morning and I honour your kindness and wisdom in your gift of the horn that helped me rouse my own people in our hour of need._

 _Lord Faramir, I will remember too the great Horn of Gondor as it rang out while your brother strove to defend my kinsman and myself from the orcs._

 _In Buckland, it is also our tradition to sound horns in times of peace and war. In memory of all those deeds, and as the Horn of Gondor is broken and may not go to your heirs, I beg you both to accept this token as a new heirloom of your house. May Ithilien also harken to the sound of horns and you be blessed with sons to bear it to good fortune._

When he looked up he saw that Éowyn’s eyes were shining with unshed tears. “I would be honoured for our son to bear this with pride,” she said, her voice catching in her throat.

“As would I,” he answered, near to tears himself. Even if the great horn did not lie in two pieces in the Citadel, he would have wished his son to bear this token in its stead: without the halfling’s valour, he would have no bride.

Éowyn laid the horn reverently on the table before them and they turned to Pippin’s gift. While Merry’s had been small, Pippin’s bulked large. Faramir reached for the letter tucked into the top and broke the seal and began to read, while Éowyn opened the bundle.

 _From Peregrin, son of Paladin, Knight of Gondor, to Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor, and to Éowyn, Lady of Rohan, greetings._

 _My dear Faramir and Éowyn_

 _My mother and sisters helped me make the enclosed to bless your wedding bed. Frodo did the translation. May a star shine on the hour of your union and may you be favoured with long life and many children._

 _Pippin_

Éowyn had unfolded the swathe of cloth to reveal a beautiful quilt. In the centre panel, two black birds nestled against each other under a canopy of branches bearing red berries. Faramir frowned as he puzzled out the words embroidered around the edge, turning the quilt to make out the occasional slightly distorted elven letter. Then he began to laugh quietly. He raised his gaze to meet Éowyn’s puzzled glance.

“It says: may your hours be as sweet as red berries, your hearts fly together like two birds, and the course of your love flow as strongly as a mountain stream.”

Her hand found his amidst the folds of the cloth. “Our wedding bed will be blessed indeed,” she said softly. He could see from her eyes, now shining with joy rather than tears, that she too was recalling a day last summer when Pippin’s attempt to keep the birds away from the berries down by the banks of the Snowbourn had led to Faramir gaining a soaking – and to an aftermath, later that same evening and not far from the same spot, of sweet and not entirely innocent pleasure for the betrothed couple.

Now Elfhelm brought the quilt into the bedchamber and showed it to Faramir, before taking it to spread across the bed.

There had been other gifts, given during the ceremony itself that had made Faramir realise how blessed they were in the friendships they had forged during the war: friendships that had chased away any lingering grief at loss of family.

For it had been Éomer who had led Éowyn from one side of the hall, standing in stead of her father or uncle, while Lothíriel stepped out at Faramir’s side in place of his mother, as they undertook the ceremony of Gondor.

In the half-dim light of the hall, lit by many resinous torches that gave off a sweet smell of pine and applewood, Éowyn seemed to Faramir to glow with a light of her own, like the marvellous star-glass that the Lady of the Wood had gifted to Frodo.

She wore a cream dress and cloak that shimmered as she moved. As Faramir stepped closer, he saw that it was patterned with leaves and flowers, woven into the material, that somehow transformed themselves into horses when he looked again. Around the neck and hem were stitched in gold thread and red jewels deep bands of the same leaves and flowers that were yet horses too. Tendrils of white and pale yellow early spring flowers were woven into her coronet. They nodded against her fair hair, bound up in elaborate braids in which Faramir recognised the touch of Queen Arwen.

As they met in the centre of the hall, Faramir allowed Lothíriel to take his hand and offer it out. Éomer lifted his sister’s hand and placed it in Faramir’s gentle grasp. For a moment, the hands of all four made a knot, then Éomer and Lothíriel let their hands fall away and stepped back.

Éowyn’s hand lay warm and still within his own. Faramir held her gaze and squeezed her fingers very gently as he spoke the words of his vow in a clear voice. “I confirm what was spoken before in proxy. I take you for my wife, for all our lives, until we pass beyond the Circles of the World. I promise to protect and nurture you and our children, through feast and famine, sickness and health, grief and joy. May the Valar stand witness to my oath.”

Éowyn’s tone was quieter but equally steady as she responded with the same vow. If Faramir had ever doubted the depth of her love for him, he did not doubt it now, as her tone and look affirmed the pledge in her words.

When Éowyn finished speaking, Lothíriel took a pace forward and laid her hand over theirs. Faramir smiled down at her. He was proud of the confident way his young cousin was playing her part. “May the blessings of the Valar and of all things that live under the stars be upon you,” she said, her voice soft but resonant. “May Varda who created the lights of heaven ever kindle the spark of love within your hearts.”

Then it was Éomer’s turn to lay his hand over theirs. Faramir saw him exchange a loving glance with his sister as he spoke. “May the blessings of the Valar and of all things that live under the sky be upon you,” he said, his words strong and firm as he helped them accomplish this alien ceremony. “May Manwë, who sees all and whose breath reaches to the far corners of the world, ever inspire the strength of hope within your spirits.”

As he stepped back, Lothíriel handed Faramir a slender gold ring. Gently turning Éowyn’s hand, he slid the ring onto her index finger. “I give you this ring that the world may know of my oath, and that I am yours.” Then it was Éowyn’s turn to take the ring he had first received in Gondor and slip it onto his finger and, with the same words, complete the ceremony.

Faramir hardly had time to savour the moment or wonder if he should kiss her before the weddingthane who would conduct the ceremony for the Eorlingas stepped forward and coughed. Faramir shared a conspiratorial grin with Éowyn as he reluctantly let go of her hand, so that they each might step back towards the sides of the hall, where their families were waiting to prepare them for the next ceremony.

Before Imrahil handed him the sword he was to offer to Éowyn, Faramir took a moment to drop a light kiss of thanks on Lothíriel’s brow. Then he took the sword. This time Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos were to attend him as he stepped back across the hall towards Éowyn. Again, her brother came with her, bearing the sword she would offer him, while Elfhelm and Erkenbrand walked a pace behind.

In deference to Faramir and other guests from Gondor, it had been agreed that the Common Tongue would be used. Now the weddingthane called the company to attention. “Eorlingas and friends of the Mark, we are gathered in this place to witness the wedding of Faramir of the House of Húrin, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor, to Éowyn daughter of Éomund of the House of Eorl, Lady of Rohan, sister of King Éomer,” he intoned.

He turned to Faramir. “Do you bring your groom-gift, as you have promised?”

“I do,” Faramir answered. He faced Éomer, who now stood by his sister’s side. “I give you this groom-gift as I am sworn to do.” Elphir stepped forward and passed Faramir a scroll. “Here are the rights to lumber in the forests of Ithilien for five years, that you may rebuild your land,” Faramir continued, handing the scroll on to Éomer, who bowed his head in acknowledgement. “I bring also a gift of lore for your people: books from my library, and the help of those who will aid your people to learn of it.”

Éomer had already seen the crates being unloaded from the wagons that carried them from Minas Tirith and met the man who was to help them build a place to house them and become its first custodian. Watching his future brother’s face carefully, Faramir had seen no great personal enthusiasm on Éomer’s part. He did not think the King of Rohan would spend much time in the library himself. Yet he saw that Éomer greeted the librarian with courtesy and was sensible of the value of the gift to his land.

Now the weddingthane turned to Éomer. “Do you bring your bride-gift, as you have promised?”

Éomer nodded and smiled at his sister. “I do,” he told her. “I give you this bride-gift as I am sworn to do, to have and to hold all your days. I give you brood mares who are with foal that the bloodstock of Ithilien may be famed throughout Gondor; I give you a fine bull that your herds may grow rich and strong; I give you sheep that the weft of your looms may clothe your people well.”

Faramir saw Éowyn tighten her fingers on her brother’s arm in thanks. Then his attention was called back to the weddingthane, who was speaking again. “The groom-gift and bride-gift have been given, as was promised. Now let the groom and bride speak their vows.”

Faramir looked into Éowyn’s eyes as he held level the sword he carried and half unsheathed it. The sheath was a little worn but well crafted, the pommel plain but it fitted his hand comfortably, while the blade gleamed softly in the light of the torches that lit the hall. “This is _Alkarnár_ , the glorious flame, forged in ages past by my kin in the North, borne latest by Halbarad Dúnadan, son of Halbeleg, who was slain on the fields of the Pelennor defending the free peoples of the West. I give you this sword to save for our sons to have and to use.”

He saw Éowyn’s eyes widen, understanding the honour bestowed by the sword, as she put her hands on it to accept it. She passed it reverently to Elfhelm, who handled it with equal awe, before Éomer offered the sword she would give to Faramir.

Where Halbarad’s sword had been worn with long service, this sword was new. It was encased in a sheath laid over with fine traceries of leaves, and with it went a sword belt of the same design. Now it was Faramir’s turn to feel amazement as he recognised elven-craft. Éowyn half unsheathed the sword as she held it out to him and he saw that the blade gleamed even brighter than the one he had offered, as if it had seen long use and much polish, though he knew it could not have been forged more than a few months ago.

“To keep us safe, you must bear a blade,” Éowyn said, again quiet but strong. “At my request, this sword was forged for you by Gimli son of Glóin of the Lonely Mountain. The sheath was crafted by Legolas son of Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen. With this sword, keep safe our home.”

Faramir took the sword, his hands covering hers for a moment, and he knew that she too trembled with joy. To receive such tribute from the king’s companions was more than he could have asked for or expected, and he blinked away tears as he buckled on the sword. Then he looked up again at his bride and answered her smile with his own. All the distinction heaped on them by their fine friends was but the crowing glory on the honour that Éowyn stood before him now, their vows almost complete.

There was little more to do. Again, they exchanged rings, Erchirion offering up to Faramir the band given into his safekeeping while Erkenbrand delivered his charge to Éowyn. Where the first rings had been plain, slender bands, these rings were cunningly wrought to clasp their mates. Then Faramir turned to Amrothos for the keys he would hand to Éowyn to symbolise that she was now keeper of his household.

The tension of the day almost surfaced in a squawk of hysterical laughter as he discovered that his cousin had been extremely inventive in assembling a suitable collection of keys, ranging from one that looked as if it fitted the smallest and most delicate lady’s casket to another so large Faramir wondered for a moment if it belonged to the very gates of the White City itself. When they returned to Minas Tirith, Éowyn would have to decide for herself which of the several hundred keys in use at their various homes she would wear on her girdle and which she would bestow elsewhere.

Éowyn, too, smiled as she accepted the keys and shared in Amrothos’s joke, tilting her face upwards to offer Faramir a sweet smile. Then, it seemed, they were at last married by all the customs of both countries and Faramir was, to loud roars of approval from the assembled company, finally free to kiss his bride.


	3. Chapter Three

In the bedchamber, Elphir and Erchirion had finished unlacing the ties on Faramir’s undershirt. He shrugged it off and handed it to Erchirion. Then he waved Elphir away and pulled off his hose himself. As he stood up, Elphir’s mouth fell open. With a laugh, he said, “I see you will have no problem fulfilling your duties tonight.”

Erchirion was also grinning. “Your brother-in-law clearly failed to ply you with enough mead to save his sister!” he added, the mirth evident in his voice.

Faramir went red and wondered why, when they had discussed the wedding arrangements, he had not realised all this would be quite so _public_? Why he had not pressed for some arrangement that would allow them to wed in Gondor. Had he done so he would now be leading Éowyn alone from the feast to the privacy of the Steward’s House. He shivered. He had not wished to spend this night of all nights in his childhood home.

“Hush!” Imrahil ordered, coming forward and quickly wrapping Faramir in the bed-robe. “Everything is as it should be.” He put a hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “Nephew, I hope that the family you are making for yourself here will be as blessed as mine – if less troublesome to you.” Here, Imrahil glared at his sons.

Faramir clasped his uncle’s hand, tears starting in his eyes. “Thank you, uncle,” he murmured.

Erchirion touched him on the other shoulder and said, “Your bride is ready.”

Faramir turned and saw Éowyn standing on the other side of the room. He was dimly aware of the throng of attendants behind her, but he had eyes for no one else. She was wearing a blue robe trimmed to match his. The circlet of flowers was gone and her hair was spread loose across her shoulders.

He stood where he was, feeling a foolish smile spread over his face. He was again struck dumb by how beautiful she was. _Mind and heart and soul and body._ Once more, he could not quite believe his good fortune that this wonderful woman had consented to marry him.

She answered his smile yet stood as still as he.

After a moment, he felt a small shove in his back that made him stumble forwards. “Well, go on then!” he heard Elphir hiss behind him. “What are you waiting for?”

He began to cross the room and she came to meet him. They stopped so close to each other that he could feel her trembling as her robe brushed his fingers. He looked down into her upturned face, as open as a day’s-eye flower basking in the sun. Wordlessly, he reached for her hands where they lay hidden at her sides in the folds of cloth. Outside the circle they made, he heard muted laughter and shuffling feet as the attendants departed.

As the door closed and the sound of the attendants’ voices was cut off, he bent his head further to kiss her. This was nothing like the half-laughing, slightly embarrassed kiss they had shared at the end of their wedding ceremony, or the occasional chaste kisses on the cheek they had exchanged during the feast. This was a kiss that spoke of his love and adoration and desire. He began gently enough but soon deepened the kiss as she responded, tasting once again the sweetness he had experienced on the riverbank so many months ago. He slid his arms around her to press her tightly against him, so that she would not be ignorant of his need for her, and felt her hands in his hair as she answered him with all the force of her own passion.

At last they broke apart. He could see she was as breathless as he was. Her gaze was fixed on his, and for a moment he simply looked at her, drinking in the desire he saw in her eyes. Desire for him.

Sliding his hands down from her shoulders to lightly capture her wrists, he took a step sideways, drawing her to the bed. He kept his eyes on hers, unwilling to relinquish that look and end the unspoken communication between them. He moved until he felt the wood of the bed frame pressing into his leg. Then he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her against him for another long kiss.

This time when they parted, she spoke his name softly. Her voice lingered over the syllables, and he found himself trembling at the sound. He enfolded her in his arms, pressing his lips into the soft golden hair at the crown of her head, breathing in the faint scent of flowers that lingered from the circlet she had worn all day. “My love, my life, my heart,” he murmured.

Then, with a swift movement, he bent and lifted her in his arms and sat her on the bed. She gave a small squeak of surprise and he found his mouth twitching. They looked at each other for a long moment, trying to suppress the laughter that was bubbling up inside them. Then it burst out in joyous peals. He followed her onto the bed on his knees and chased away the laughter with another kiss, and another.

His hand had found a bare ankle exposed when her robe had become caught up in her bent knee. He caressed it softly, feeling her shivering with pleasure under his touch. Each time, he ran his hand a little further up her calf towards her knee. When he finally reached the bend of her knee and then slid his hand higher to make his first foray into the scarce-touched skin above, she drew back from his kiss with a little gasp of delight.

So intent had he been on the sensation of hand on skin and mouth on mouth, he had hardly noticed that, while he was at work, she had also been busy, loosening the ties that held his robe closed. Now, as they drew apart a little, she rose up to kneel facing him. His regret that she had prevented him continuing his advances turned quickly to enchantment when he realised that she wished to lead the dance and not just follow, to be a full partner in this pleasure and not simply accept the caresses he offered her.

He held himself still as she slowly pushed the robe back from his shoulders to uncover the lean muscles of his chest. He watched her as she let her gaze, then her hands, and finally her lips gently trace the contours of his skin. Only the quickening of his breaths and the gleam in his eyes betrayed the intense pleasure that was thrilling through him as she discovered him.

“Éowyn,” he murmured, breathing in her sweet scent as she trailed soft kisses along his collarbone. She lifted her head to look into his eyes. Her hands were busy freeing his arms from the sleeves of the robe. He leant forward and once again explored her lips with his, enjoying the pleasure of her hands on him as she ran them down his back to push the robe away. Now he was naked in her arms. He embraced her tightly, feeling the harsh touch of her robe’s rich embroidery against his skin.

This time, when they pulled apart, she held him away from her and looked him over. There was no mistaking his need for her. When she returned her gaze to his face, he saw both her desire and a little uncertainty.

“Éowyn,” he laid a hand on her cheek, “I wish for you to have only good memories of this night.”

“I know.” Her look was trusting, but her voice was low. He caught a faint tremor in it.

“I understand it may be painful for you, but I will do what I can to make it less so.”

“I do not fear pain,” she said, a touch of offence now in her voice.

“Aye, my love, I know that!” He stroked her face and gave her an impish grin. “But we are not on the battlefield. I hope that, here in the bedchamber, I will not give you cause to show your bravery.” He bent her head to kiss her brow, before he tipped her chin back up to meet her gaze again. “I hope that I will never give you cause to show your bravery anywhere, my lady.”

“Except perhaps in the bearing of your children,” she answered, her face lit by a sudden smile. “I believe you cannot spare me there. And I would not wish you to.” She slid her hands around his waist and drew him closer. “Perhaps we should delay no longer in the getting of them? I think you, at least, do not wish to wait?”

“Aye!” he admitted. Her eagerness and the whisper of her robe against his skin were only adding to his readiness. He knew he must act soon if he were to keep control, yet not too soon if she were to have any joy of it. He allowed her a brief kiss and then pulled back.

“Let me see you,” he murmured. Now his hands worked intently at the ties of her robe. He noticed with a little surprise that his fingers were shaking. He suddenly felt more uncertain than he had with any woman for many years. Would he please her? Would he make her happy? Tonight and in all their long life ahead? He was piercingly aware that there had been no greater risk in all his life before, for never had the stakes been so high: never had he sought a greater prize than their future joy together.

When he had loosened the last tie, he looked up to see her watching him as he had watched her. She gave him a smile that contained both encouragement and anticipation. Breathlessly, he slowly slid the robe back from her shoulders. On the riverbank, he had touched and tasted, but it had been too dark to see. Now the soft candlelight flickered over her fair skin, her firm small breasts with dark pink nipples already hard, and the taut, flat muscles of her stomach, where only the slightest swell hinted at the power that lay inside her to bring forth new life.

He reached out and cupped her breasts. Her sharp intake of breath pushed them against his hands. He bent forward and paid homage to first one and then the other with his mouth. The heat rising off her brought her scent more strongly to him. She had placed her hands on his head and was stroking his hair as his fingertips and mouth explored her body, arching her back towards him as he tasted and tested every inch of her skin.

Soon, he drew them down to stretch out across the bed. As he cradled her in one arm and his mouth roved over her face and neck and breasts, his other hand was free to resume the caresses that had been checked earlier. She shivered as his fingers gently moved higher on her soft, smooth skin, each stroke taking him into new territory. She continued her own exploration of him, her hands and mouth gentle yet at the same time almost as painful as the prickles of holly leaves, her touch raising him to nearly intolerable levels of need. Even though he wanted to feel himself within her now, he continued to use all his discipline to keep control while he sought to slowly bring her to the same level of desire.

As his fingertips drew near the heart of her, she in turn gently grasped him in the way he had shown her on the riverbank. Her touch was almost too much for him and he quickly put his hand over hers to take it away. He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Not this time, my love,” he said, seeing her puzzled expression. “Not if we are to do what we must.”

She nodded and he saw the confusion clear from her eyes, leaving only her desire. There was no fear this time. He felt her hips press more urgently against him. Capturing her mouth again with his, he slid his hand down over her mound and once more between her legs. As he touched her there, he felt a wordless sigh of satisfaction escape from her. There was an answering tug deep inside him as he discovered how very ready she was for him.

He broke the kiss and looked again into her eyes. Without words – for there was no need for words to express the communion of their hearts – he turned her on her back and poised himself above her.

Feeling carefully, he guided himself into her. She was warm and welcoming around him. He had to breathe deeply to keep his own need in check. As slowly and as gently as he could, he began to advance.

She gave a slight gasp and her fingers dug into his shoulders a little harder. He held himself still.

“Did I hurt you, my love? Shall I stop?”

She shook her head, spilling her golden hair so that it lay across the backs of his hands where he supported himself above her. The soft strands caressed his skin with each slight movement she made. “No. Go on. Please.” Her voice was a whisper and a plea. He felt again her fingers flexing on his shoulders.

He went on, slipping gradually into her, concentrating on controlling himself and denying his own responses that threatened to overwhelm him. He saw how her eyes went a little distant as she absorbed this new sensation, as she learnt how it felt to take him in. Then they came back to focus on him. “Faramir,” she whispered.

The way she spoke his name almost took his wits away. He drew in a ragged breath as he fought his passion and had to stop for a moment while he gained control again. This time, as he pressed on, there came a moment of resistance and he felt her stiffen as he pushed harder. Once more he halted.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

She nodded, her bottom lip caught in her teeth. Her face serious, she said, “Yes. But go on. It will only be for a moment.” He felt her hands slide down his back, pressing him towards her. He allowed her to take him deeper and found it was not as difficult as he had feared. Suddenly he was sinking into her completely. Deep inside her at last, he allowed himself to fall against her and sought her lips for a kiss.

“Éowyn,” he murmured.

He felt her slide her hands up into his hair as she returned the kiss. Breaking it reluctantly, he slowly drew himself out a little, and then slid back in. Again and again, each time lengthening his stroke. After the first few, she tentatively began to move her hips and catch his rhythm. As he felt her respond, and as he looked into her face and saw the love that shone there, it proved too much at last. His heart seemed to burst within him and, losing his careful control, he involuntarily gave three or four quick deep thrusts before he cried out her name joyously and spent himself within her.

Coming back to himself, still breathing hard, he looked down at his wife.

“Oh my love, forgive me. There was not much pleasure in that for you.”

“I did not expect there to be,” she answered softly, pulling him down for another kiss. “Not the first time. And I think you had pleasure enough for both of us.”

“Next time, you will have your pleasure,” he promised, returning the kiss. He withdrew from her and moved to lie on his side and gather her in to him. “And this time also. I think we are not yet finished.”

Once more he slipped a finger downwards into the moist place between her legs. She cried out gently as he began to slowly tease her back towards the edge of the abyss from which he had so abruptly torn her away. He bent his head and touched his tongue to her nipple and was rewarded with another soft cry. It was not long before, with touch and mouth, he brought her to her release. She gasped his name as a long, slow shiver pulsed through her.

She lay flat on her back for a moment, breathing as hard as he had done earlier. Then she turned towards him and buried her face in his neck, wrapping herself around him. He folded his arms about her and pressed her to him.

He looked down at the fair crown lying against his shoulder. He was too content and too wrung out with the emotions of the day to have any clear idea of what he felt, except to know that it was beyond any delight he had felt before. She had slaked a thirst he had scarcely known he possessed and given him gifts beyond price. _Mind and heart and soul and body._

“My love,” he whispered, dropping a kiss on her head and reaching out a hand to pull the covers over them, before settling them more comfortably together.


	4. Chapter Four

Faramir fell into a light doze for a while, waking when he felt Éowyn stir against him. He lay for a moment listening to the soft, soothing sound of their breathing close by and the more distant noise of revelry that continued in the hall. The candles had burnt low and some had guttered out; he judged that more than two hours had passed. His skin was cold where it was exposed to the air, but warm where his wife rested against him.

She seemed to be asleep and he did not wish to wake her, but he could not resist slowly tracing the length of her arm with his fingers. He travelled the route from her shoulder to the bend of her elbow, then back upwards to where her hand rested on his chest. Along the way, he discovered a patch of fading, scarred skin and a place where her bones no longer ran as straight as they once did. He had not known her wound had been so cruel that it should leave such traces even when tended by the most skilled healers in Gondor. He wondered if it pained her still at times, as his own wounds did, when it was damp or cold or he was simply tired: aching reminders of past battles and past losses.

 _How many strange turns of fate there have been, that we should find ourselves here._

Faramir did not realise, as he lay there, watching Éowyn sleep and listening to her breathing, that his hand had encircled her arm, covering the scar and seeking to warm it.

That mark was a reminder of something else he knew he should do well never to forget: that his beautiful wife was no decorative flower, to be plucked and displayed until she withered and faded, or to have her beauty preserved in entombing crystal. Nor should he force her to grow against her nature, to be what she was not – even if she must, like any plant, take account of the soil and the seasons in which she found herself.

Faramir remembered with an ache of his heart the whispers he had heard about his own mother, transplanted from the pleasant seaward vales of Dol Amroth to wither among the harsh stones of the White City. Would a lily of Rohan fare better than a hibiscus from the south? Yet he took comfort from an evening he had spent with Mithrandir, while the Halflings still dwelt in Minas Tirith. In their long speech together, he had learnt much of his father’s mood and actions over many years. _Oh, my father, that the bitter gift of your love should have hastened mother's end and robbed you of your heart’s delight._ Faramir hoped that his own love would always be a joy to his wife and children and not a burden.

His hand tightened a little on Éowyn’s arm as he thought of his mother and father, and it was enough to wake his wife from her shallow sleep. He saw a moment of uncertainty in her eyes as she found herself in an unfamiliar place, then her expression cleared and she did not hesitate to seek out his lips. Faramir discovered a new form of tenderness as they began to add better acquaintance to desire, and his doubts were swept away.

Yet he had barely begun on the quest for renewed pleasure when she held him back, her face anxious. “I know a little now, yet not enough,” she said, a blush rising in her cheeks. “Before, when I touched you, it was wrong of me, but I did not understand. Faramir, I would not make such mistakes and disappoint you again. I would have you tell me what you wish from me.”

“My love, you did not disappoint me,” Faramir exclaimed, moved by her concern. “And if I did not make my desires clear to you, it was because you fulfilled them all. We must learn together – together! – when to act and when to hold back. Indeed, I fear it was I who disappointed you and I who failed in my control.” He stroked her cheek. “My only plea for your clemency is that I never before made love with a woman I was in love with.” He leant forward and gave her a soft and lingering kiss. “I have never been in love before,” he murmured against her lips.

When he drew back, he saw her frown had deepened.

“Have there been many women?” she asked him, dipping her head down to avoid his gaze.

He cursed silently. “Not many,” he admitted. When it looked as if she would not speak again, he added, “Courtesans.”

“You paid them?” Her tone was a little hurt and puzzled.

“Aye. A man should learn many things. Among them, how to please his wife in bed. And would you rather I had chased kitchen maids, who would not have dared refuse me because of my station? Or young noblewomen whom I did not intend to marry? Or that I had never known a woman before you, so that I would be clumsy and thoughtless?”

She was still while he spoke and silent for a while after he finished, pondering his words, before she raised her head and looked at him again. “No, I would not have that,” she said softly. He was glad to see her smile had returned. “But I do not wish to share you with any other woman.”

“You do not.” He pushed a strand of hair back off her forehead. “You cannot blame me for my actions before I met you. Since then, since I first saw you walking across the grass towards me in the Houses of Healing, my heart has been so full of you, and you alone, that I have thought at times it would break.”

He paused and said, “Nor do I begrudge you any knowledge you gained before you met me. Indeed, I can hardly complain of it when it gave me such pleasure last year. Mayhap women also should learn how they might please their husbands in bed.”

“Think you women should go to…?” her eyes widened. “Are there such men?”

Faramir laughed. “I do not know. Perhaps you can befriend the women of the court and they will tell you!”

Éowyn bent her head once more. “I do not think I will ever be such friends with the women of the court,” she said sadly.

Faramir tipped up her chin so he could look into her eyes. “Dear heart, did they slight you when you were in Gondor?”

“No,” she gave a small, harsh laugh. “They were not so lacking in subtlety. And there were some who were very kind. Yet for the most part they did not make me welcome. Why should they, when I stole their prize away?” She laid a hand along his face and gave him a look filled with both such sadness and such love that he could not resist leaning forward to kiss her tenderly.

When he drew back, she sighed and said, “And since I have the prize, a part of me wonders why I should care aught for them. Yet I must make them my friends, for your sake and the sake of the king and queen.”

“A sapling must always struggle a little when it is transplanted,” he answered her gently, “but if it is cared for by those who love it, it will put down deep roots and send out strong shoots and before long it will delight all with its fair blossom. I am sure the queen will be your ally in dealing with the court.”

“Yes, we can unite them in our dislike of us!” Éowyn exclaimed. Faramir pulled away from her, startled by her revelation. His surprise must have been writ large upon his face, for she said wearily, “Do you think all of them welcome a half-Elf whose ways are strange to them? I think some fear her a little and believe she will perform Elven magics upon them. As they fear that I will taint them with my wild, unmaidenly ways.”

Faramir thought for a moment and then laughed. “Oh my love, do you think those silly girls will be equal to an alliance between the Queen of Gondor and the White Lady of Ithilien? I tremble myself at the thought that the two of you should ever unite to oppose your husbands in some enterprise. I think you will have them eating out of your hand within a year.” Then he grinned. “Or we will arrange matches for them that will take them to the furthest lordships of Gondor, or see them follow my cousin to Rohan – or even use them to renew old ties between the North and South.”

“Nay, you would not be so cruel as to match them so against their will,” Éowyn said, now smiling. “And your cousin is one I would not have seen leave Gondor – excepting that I am very glad she is to marry my brother. So, I promise to try harder with the ladies of the court.”

“And I promise to try harder with the lords, who also often test my patience, my love. In truth, I understand at last my father’s frequent irritation with them. And when we have both had our fill, we will escape into the woods of Ithilien: I know many places where only the most skilled of Rangers could find us.”

“I trust you would give them orders not to look for us.”

“I would,” he answered, before he took her in his arms and began to kiss her again with rather more purpose.

Now she was not slow to respond and her touch was more sure. He felt freed to show her – whether by example or by guiding her – how she might please him, while he began to learn how she took her delight. Their discoveries were unhurried; many more of the candles had died before they exhausted the task.

This time, he did not object to her moving to stroke him into life, although he needed little urging. She it was, too, who rolled on to her back and spread herself to welcome him. Enveloped within her, he kept his rhythm as she found hers, and watched her face lose the look of intense concentration it wore at first – and which he found so endearing – as her confidence grew and she abandoned herself to sensation.

Leaning on one arm, he slid his hand underneath her and encouraged her to wrap her legs around him. As she did so, he felt himself shift against her and his next slow thrust was rewarded with a long, shivering gasp. Enheartened, he made sure he repeated the move exactly. At each stroke, she gave another moan and forced her hips towards him ever more fiercely. It was not long before he felt her hands tighten on his shoulders. She threw back her head and gave a final cry, and he felt the pulsing waves of her release around him.

He had lost their rhythm while she arched against him and was, for a moment, taut and unmoving beneath him. Then her hands relaxed and she opened her eyes and once more began to move. Re-establishing their tempo, his own pleasure was soon completed.

Afterwards, as the cool night air chilled his sweat, he made sure the covers were pulled close around them. The final candles were dying and they let the light fade as they spoke quietly of the day that was past and the days that were to come. At last, Éowyn yawned and closed her eyes and rested her head against his shoulder. He watched her for a while, reluctant to let the day slip away. It felt strange to fall asleep knowing he would not need to wake again soon and leave, returning to a solitary bed. When he woke in the morning, she would be there still in his arms.

 _Wife. Lover. Friend._


	5. Epilogue

The court had been assembled for some time and was growing a little restless, not least because many were nursing sore heads. Moving amongst the crowd, Imrahil heard the Rohirrim blame the Steward of Gondor. Returning to the gathering of Gondorian nobles, he found the mutterings were against the White Lady. King Éomer and Queen Arwen were talking, apparently unconcerned by the delay to the ceremony of the morning gift.

Imrahil had been pleased to learn that his nephew intended to pass the dower lands he had inherited from his mother to Éowyn and that they would spend at least some time in Dol Amroth each summer. There had been too many years when the Prince and his children had missed Boromir’s lively practical jokes and Faramir’s quiet patience in tolerating his cousins’ endless demands that he play just one more game with them; too many years also when his nephews had not benefited from the lighter atmosphere of the home by the sea. Boromir would still be missed, but perhaps there would soon be a mischievous son of Ithilien to join the grandson who was already proving a terror in the Dol Amroth household.

At last they came. Imrahil, from where he sat, saw them for a moment before they stepped into the hall, as they came down the corridor from the private apartments. They were close, Faramir with his head bent to make some quiet remark to Éowyn, both of them laughing, their hands intertwined. Then they reached the threshold and the Prince of Ithilien and his wife took a more formal pose, her hand on his proffered arm as he led her into the hall.

Bestowing the morning gift did not take long and soon the company was enjoying the breakfast feast. Watching Faramir as he moved around the room with Éowyn to greet new and old kinsmen, Imrahil noticed a change in his nephew’s demeanour. It took him a moment to understand it. Then he realised that the tension that had lived permanently in Faramir’s face was gone at last. Imrahil saw him smile down once more at his wife, truly at peace for perhaps the first time in his life.

The Prince of Dol Amroth knew that such a blissful state would not long stand against the demands of office. Yet now there was hope for his nephew. He sent up a silent plea: _By the grace of the Valar, may the White Lady always ease his care._


End file.
